All the Rest
by ulstergirl
Summary: Della doesn't know quite what to make of him, at first. Early in Bookverse.


Mr. Mason scared her, those first two weeks. Della was studying under the stern and unforgiving Miss Grey. She hadn't known, when she had accepted the job, that she would basically have to gain all the knowledge of a paralegal in ten business days, not including lunch or breaks.

Some mornings, although Miss Grey tried very hard and very nearly successfully to hide it, Perry was still in the office from the night before, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, the stale scent of hours-old cigarettes clinging to his wrinkled shirt. He would bark cryptic monosyllabic instructions at the switchboard girl and pace moodily around his office, smoking feverishly, pouncing on the phone the instant it rang.

Della found that, under the very real awe and fear, she carried an equally real respect and curiosity for him. Miss Grey always pinched her mouth and made disapproving noises when Perry grinningly tossed his hat at the bust of Blackstone, or when he carried on his conferences with the comparatively easygoing Mr. Drake.

Nondescript, that's the key, Paul had said, taking her down to the diner on the corner to make a play for her one afternoon on her lunch break. They had both known it. Della had been suitably appreciative, appropriately flattered, but she had made it clear that any mutual respect between them would remain just that.

And Paul, as he flipped his cigarette into the gutter in mock dejection, had sighed and replied that she was the same as all the other girls, casting his gaze meaningfully up at the building where Perry kept his offices.

She hadn't thought to ask, and now it was too late.

Five o'clock on a Tuesday night. Her hand was practically throbbing from all the correspondence he had dictated, so she brought in his mug of coffee left-handed, and he thanked her with his eyes. How unfair, she thought, standing in front of his desk with her hands clasped, waiting, that all he had to do was shift his dark eyes up to hers and back down again, to turn her to liquid.

Miss Grey had not been very beautiful. Della hadn't missed the appreciative gaze that took in every line of her stocking, every pleat of her skirt, every curve she displayed, when Miss Grey had barely been afforded Perry's second glance. She knew the line she walked was fine. Her fourth day working in his office, she had seen the lipstick-smeared tissue in his wastebasket after the departure of a particularly gorgeous client, and while Paul's comment was still as sardonic and opaque to her as ever, she thought now that she knew.

Mr. Mason didn't have a mistress. Della was sure she didn't want to become the first.

"Everything running smoothly, Miss Street?"

"Like clockwork, Chief."

He gave her that funny little smile, but he was still brooding; she could see it in his face, the tension in his back, the set of his shoulders. Every single possible thing that could go wrong for her, in this, in this finally steady and stable job, would start if she walked around his desk and worked her fingers into his knotted muscles, listening the entire time for that soft half-pained gasp of pleasure.

He waved a hand, and she was immediately back in her own skin, aware of the subtle shift her foundation had undergone, from smooth to gritty, the trace of his cigarettes in the folds of her clothes—she had bought a box of his brand herself the other night and lit the first one with a trembling hand, blowing out the first lungful while curled up in her armchair, in that new tiny apartment—and the dismissal he was giving her.

"Close up the office for the night; nothing more we can do until tomorrow."

She turned, obediently, on her heels, but once she reached the doorway, she turned back. "You really should," she made herself say, before she changed her mind, "have a nice dinner tonight. You barely ate lunch. Go have a nice fillet mignon, with butter, some French-fried potatoes, a nice bottle of red wine, all the trimmings. I can wait here in case Paul calls while you're out."

It was then, she realized, but only later, that what she had done had made her even more vulnerable than if she had lain her tired hands on his equally tired shoulders and given him the relief he so sorely needed. That she so sorely needed.

"We can stop by Drake's office on the way down," he decided, and she had barely registered his inclusion of her when he swept his hat off the coatrack and flipped off the lights. "He's a detective, for Pete's sake. If he can't find me at dinner, he's not nearly worth what I'm paying him."

And then, somehow, she had her coat folded over her arm and her purse at her elbow and he was calling the elevator, the granite-hard lines of his face softening into something she didn't yet understand.

--

She only let herself order a Manhattan once he was on his third scotch and soda, but she was too nervous to actually feel it. He wasn't making a play for her. He really wasn't. He was interested; he had that light in his eyes that she loved to see, that still managed to send a slow thrill up her spine, but she was beginning to doubt her own judgement when it came to him. He was utterly, completely unlike anyone she had ever met. His confidence, with clients, with her, with Paul, was formidable, his passion equally ungovernable. Paul's lines had been ones Della had heard before; the playing ground had been equal between them, on terms she understood, in a language in which she was fluent. With Perry, she found herself uncomfortably aware, in every moment, of the inequality between them.

His eyes had twinkled when he had ordered her meal for her, pausing only to find out her preference for the temperature of her steak, and he had said something about the expense account, but she had been mortified to find that all she could do was stare at his mouth.

Her drink was only half-finished, the remains of their plates cleared away, when he stood, and she was unaccountably disappointed. She hadn't even been angling for a free dinner, after all. Longing for a few more minutes in his presence when she wasn't taking shorthand or deftly screening his calls would only get her in trouble.

He offered her his hand. "We really must, Miss Street."

For a split second she froze, considering all the ramifications, quickly coming to the conclusion that this was a test and the only right answer involved a sincere thanks and apology, but she slid gracefully from the booth without managing a single syllable, and he led her to the dance floor like she was the most gorgeous woman in the room, and there had never been any question that she would say yes to the offer of his arms.

His movements were smooth and perfectly timed, and his hands, while most definitely leading her, didn't crush her to an unmistakable proposition of an embrace. Even so, the space between them was wide enough for naught but air, and her heart sank when she realized that he could probably see it all in her eyes, had probably seen it all day, all week, from the first day she had stepped into his office and been introduced to him following that first interview.

He gazed at her with frank appreciation when she matched his more complicated turn. "I thought I had outgrown the sensation of surprise," he remarked.

"I didn't think anything could surprise you."

"Then I suppose we were both wrong," he said, his hand sliding half an inch toward her spine.

She started to close her eyes, and then she remembered those lipstick-smeared tissues.

"You're a delightful companion, Miss Street."

"And you, Chief, don't need to fish for compliments from me."

He threw his head back and laughed without missing a step, and she suddenly felt fiercely, possessively jealous, for him, tissues be damned. If she had her way, hers would be the only lipstick he would wipe from his cheek. She would be the only companion.

Secretary, she reminded herself. Secretary. He's a man, this is what he does. And unless you want to find another job, you need to remember that.

"D—"

"Pardon," the maitre d' interrupted, visibly agitated at having to do so. "Mr. Mason, we have a call for you. I can bring the phone to the table."

The animation that had lit Perry's face slowly faded, until he wasn't quite as serious as he had been behind his desk, but he soon would be. Della took a small step back, feeling unaccountably self-conscious. The waiters here all knew him by name; she returned the maitre d's smile with one of her own, aware that he probably had already categorized her as just another of Perry's women. Companions.

When she returned from the powder room, Perry was standing at the table, looking at his watch. "I can take a cab home from here," she told him.

"I'll drive you," he said, and it wasn't a command or a question, just a statement of fact. She followed in his wake as he maneuvered through the restaurant, waving in acknowledgement of the maitre d's lavish thanks for coming. The entire car ride to her apartment, he stared straight ahead, barely moving, managing to glide through traffic signals just as they changed, handling the motor with purring precision, coaxing tremendous bursts of speed, but she hardly noticed. He narrowly avoided colliding with a huge older-model vehicle and she blinked, then sighed very quietly.

He took in the lobby of her building with one long sweeping glance, appearing unhurried even as his long-legged stride forced her to run to catch up.

"I had a lovely evening."

The elevator boy's head twitched slightly in her direction, but Perry, hands shoved deep in his pockets, only nodded, his eyes twinkling a little. "I did too. This far, anyway. Paul's report might try to spoil it, though."

He had to follow her once they arrived on her floor, and she swiftly removed her gloves and found her passkey in her purse before stopping in front of her door. "Are you quite so thorough with all your companions?" she asked, raising one shaped eyebrow, as she turned to face him.

"Sometimes," he admitted. "But I find it's best to keep them guessing."

Then his palm was resting lightly on her cheek and she had her head tilted back, lips slightly parted, before she had even fully registered how close he was to her. He kissed her and she was distantly aware the entire time that he shouldn't have, that she shouldn't let him, that she shouldn't still be letting him, that an evening of an expensive dinner and dancing shouldn't end with a tender kiss from her boss unless she didn't want him to be her boss for very long.

She pulled back first, reluctantly, her eyes dancing when she saw that now, indeed, he did have her lipstick smeared across his mouth. Without stepping away from him, she slipped his handkerchief out of his breast pocket and deftly removed the incriminating traces with two gentle swipes. She handed it back to him and he pushed it back into his pocket without moving his gaze from hers. She forced herself to turn and fumble with her passkey, aware that she was blushing under his scrutiny.

"I'll need one of those," he said, nodding at her key. She glanced up at him, startled. "For emergencies," he elaborated, humor touching his eyes. "Don't worry, you'll have a copy of mine as well."

"Is your emergency apartment key so rare as your unlisted apartment number?" she asked, unable to help herself. She had to have her back against something. He'd managed to tear everything else away.

"Rarer," he said quietly. He half-raised his hand, as though to touch her face again, and she stood listening to her heart pound, but then his hand dropped back to her side and she made very sure her face didn't drop along with it.

"Bright and early tomorrow, Miss Street," he said, and began the walk back to the elevator, the square of fabric stained with her lipstick resting over his heart.


End file.
